


the east gym

by motorghost



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, BDSM, Birthday Sex, Blindfolds, Bondage, Bottom Jesse McCree, Dom/sub, Gags, If You Squint - Freeform, Implied verbal humiliation, Light Dom/sub, M/M, PWP, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Riding Crops, Some Plot, Spanking, Table Sex, Top Hanzo Shimada, Whipping
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-03
Updated: 2020-04-03
Packaged: 2021-03-01 02:32:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,595
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23463970
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/motorghost/pseuds/motorghost
Summary: Jesse's tied up and lying on a massage table in the darkness.
Relationships: Jesse McCree/Hanzo Shimada
Comments: 13
Kudos: 264





	the east gym

**Author's Note:**

> This is March's NSFW ficlet prompt: Jesse's birthday! I was going to do something light/silly but then this idea flowed out of me all at once. 
> 
> I beefed up this ficlet from what I posted a week ago, so if you've read this before, you'll find some changes. Approximately 500 words' worth of changes.
> 
> Hope you like! <3

It’s dark in the east gym. If Jesse opens his eyes, he can’t even see the low ceiling fans, huge and slow and casting just the barest of breezes over his hot skin. This summer is ruthless; this gym hasn't seen use in years, but the old mix of body odor and cleaning product still leaks through the old-fashioned padded seats and porous plastic hand-sanitizer dispensers, as if the whole room were sweating. He’s been lying on the padded massage table for just ten minutes but he’s already warmer than warm. He's already hard, too, but that's to be expected.

This used to be where Blackwatch went to exercise. It was an exclusive haven, especially in the beginning, when Jesse barely felt comfortable around Gabe, let alone anyone from the royal blue roster. If he closes his eyes, he can hear his old commander’s voice bouncing off the cement walls, echoing forever. The heat used to be the point; Reyes wanted them gasping for breaths through their reps. Always pushing them harder, for longer, as if his federally-donated enhancements broke his expectations of what the human body was capable of.

The door creaks open, breaking Jesse's dizzy reverie. It slowly slides shut, a single tungsten light waving through the darkness, lantern-like. No footsteps follow.

Jesse shuts his eyes and goes very still. He knows Hanzo is just standing there, but he’s not sure why. He hopes it’s because Hanzo is admiring the way Jesse managed to tie his own wrists together under the massage table, a dense knot of red cord, the excess of which probably reaches all the way to the floor. Probably sloppy, but definitely effective.

To show off his work (and to pierce the unbearable anticipation), Jesse tries tugging his wrists apart, letting the length between them snap like a belt.

Silence.

Then, another snap, like an answer: a light whooshing sound followed by a short, sharp crack. It sounds like a riding crop.

 _Ho-lee shit._ A thrill he hasn’t known in years creeps out from Jesse's groin and floods his groin. He didn’t even know Hanzo owned a crop; he can’t imagine how he got one onto a secret military base. Just picturing Hanzo with the thing in his hand has Jesse's cock twitching where it lies against his belly, as red and heavy as the rest of him.

The the snap comes again, and again, as if Hanzo is slapping the crop across something with as much casual idleness as a child dragging a stick against a fence. It might be hitting his own thigh.

Jesse huffs like a bridled horse. His legs adjust on the table, getting sticky on the mats and jumpy with nerves. A few more snapping sounds, then he feels the breeze kick up a modicum: Hanzo turned up the fan. Even that adds to the tension—like the man's planning for more heat to come.

But Jesse never was good at waiting. The part of him that recoils at the bulging pressure orders him to do something about it. So he lifts his hips, brings his knees up to his chest and crosses his legs at the ankle, giving Hanzo a clear view of areas where Jesse would like some attention.

Of course, ‘like’ is a tricky concept in this kind of situation.

The first smack feels like dragon’s breath. A grunt cracks out of Jesse’s throat like buckshot, partially out of surprise; some part of him figured Hanzo would ease into things, fool that he is. The next snap lands across the space where his thighs meet his ass and his eyes scrunch shut, remembering their agreement. His bottom lip sucks between his teeth and goes red through two more strikes.

“Good boy.”

Jesse shivers, and he knows Hanzo can tell. He knows that Hanzo is watching how his hips jump in place at every soft drag of the crop. Nothing gets past that man. It's one of the reasons why Jesse asked for this, why he knew it'd be good. He's heard Hanzo whisper like this before, when he's being fucked into a mattress or when he's pinned Jesse to the floor; encouragement doled out so sparsely, so gruffly, as to be devastating in its sudden arrival. Makes Jesse feel like he'd do all kinds of things just for a handful of that throaty praise.

Hanzo snaps the crop against Jesse’s thigh four more times, then eight more on the other side. Tears build at the corners of Jesse's eyes, but the biggest sound he makes is a sharp inhale after every strike. That's the trick: exhale before the strike, inhale after. 

“Shh.” Hanzo pets the underside of Jesse’s burning skin with a hand that both soothes and threatens. “You do not have to move.”

The assurance in Hanzo’s voice is at a level that Jesse has only experienced once, maybe twice in his life. Gradually, it strips away his instinct to bolt, or to hurry it all along somehow. Leaves him without all the protections of his customary role as Top, the tread in his tires. Jesse's always been the one with his fist in someone’s hair, his big body and brash nature immediately dominating whatever room he walks into. Always assured of being in control, or at the very least, being in control of himself. Knowing he could fuck someone silly and probably talk his way into seconds or thirds after.  
  
Most of the time, anyway. Other times—

Hanzo seizes his face and pushes a ball gag into his mouth. Jesse’s body snaps in instinctual struggle until Hanzo shakes him by the jaw. "Cease."

Jesse's eyes fling open and then widen. This man, whom he’s only been seeing for a few months now, looks every inch like someone Jesse would want to make his stubborn ass submit. Dark, sleek eyes. Angular, masculine jaw. Power and grace wrapped up in such a tightly-woven braid that one seems hardly separate from the other. Backlit by the lantern he must’ve placed on the floor; haloed by orange haze, like the room is on fire. No one could ever feel doubtful or impatient or like they’d better step in and take over with those eyes on them.

But it’s all he gets to see before Hanzo takes fluttering fabric from his pocket and wraps it over Jesse’s eyes.

“That was the warm-up.” Jesse can feel Hanzo’s lips against his ear, making him bite against the gag. “Now you get twelve. I will count. You will do nothing.”

Fuck, it shouldn't be so hot when Hanzo is mean. The lips withdraw, and Hanzo’s voice attains another layer of depth and what Jesse might call don’t-fuck-with-me-ness. “Spread.”  
  
Jesse can't even make a crack about how Hanzo wanted him to be still, and the effect is comically powerful; the inability to make jokes, to poke holes in the atmosphere and rob Hanzo of some of his glamour, makes Jesse shudder all over.

He pulls his knees closer to his chest. Then Hanzo growls, “Wider,” and Jesse grunts against the gag, spreads his thighs until the joints stretch. Utterly exposed. The crop draws up the underside of his leaking cock and he twitches again, severely. For the first time, his wrists tug on the rope with real effort to escape.

The sting is worse when Hanzo holds back, somehow. The leather brings quick burns—never deep enough to ache, only skittering pain across the surface like dragging claws. Light and excruciating at the same time.

Hanzo also changes tactics: his target and timing turn random, sabotaging Jesse's breathing trick. He also comes dangerously close to Jesse’s balls, interspersing his chaotic assault with soft drags of his gloved fingers against Jesse’s entrance. Gentle tugs only on the very tip of his draining cock.

Jesse doesn’t even notice when he starts making noises. He’s only aware when Hanzo pauses at strike eight and his own wheezing groan finally breaches his own awareness, fuzzy and distant against the white-hot scream of his thighs.

“Do you like that?”

Jesse can feel Hanzo’s hands on his chest, both of them, the crop apparently hanging from a loop around the archer’s wrist. He cups Jesse’s pecs, digs his thumbs against the nipples and Jesse feels his lungs inflate past their usual limits just to feel Hanzo’s fingers sink even deeper. "Of course you do."

Then Hanzo starts really talking, low and dirty and taboo, and fuck the ceiling fan—Jesse knows he's swimming in heat. The noises are constant now, dips of low growls and peaks of wet, muffled howls, answering Hanzo's accusations and goading with tight growls, muffled whimpers.

The last blow leaves Jesse shaking. He doesn't dare lower his legs, but he can't imagine how they're still up in the first place. He has just enough time to notice the way the breeze stings his abused skin before Hanzo is crawling up onto the table and piercing him with one slick finger.

 _Shame is a funny thing_ , echoes Jesse's absent mind. Hanzo’s rough words and his rough treatment provoke the sharpest lust Jesse's ever experienced, mingling together into a disorientation as thick as the black over his eyes, the gag in his mouth, the binding around his wrists. Jesse knew that Hanzo would do well when they discussed this aspect beforehand, but he never expected him to do this well. Ruthless, but still succinct and economical. Long stretches of total quiet, then devastating instigation. But Jesse should have known; polished as he is, Hanzo is just as much of a gangster as Jesse. There's probably no realm of profanity he hasn't dabbled in at least once. There's a darkness there that will never not be.

And it's so, so good. To have Hanzo make him feel filthy and then press his hungry mouth onto Jesse's inner thigh, sucking another welt while fingering him deep. Jesse's fists clench so tightly, he can hear the metallic grind on his left palm. He can feel the way his spine bows towards the ceiling with every touch to his prostate. His hips, once his only grounding against the crop, now churn and thrust as if controlled by Hanzo's fingers.

And those fingers—thick and skillful and greedy. Spreading Jesse open with slow relish. Pushing in three just a little too fast, asking more from Jesse than he is used to giving.

“Do you know how perfect you look to me right now, Jesse?” His other hand presses the burns into Jesse’s thighs, encourages the bruising while Jesse's body jerks. “So spread out. So strong. So big,” he chuckles, brushing his knuckles up the underside of Jesse’s cock, “With nothing to do but lie there and take it.”

A moan rips out from Jesse’s chest and he angles his hips up even higher, nods them down when he thinks he might get Hanzo’s fingers closer to his prostate.

Then Hanzo insults him again, takes away his fingers. The pop of a cap, then the tell-tale sounds of Hanzo slicking up his own cock. Jesse goes a little mad at the noises, thrashes in open rebellion. Barely registers the drool that must be seeping down his jaw. Bucks like maybe he can free his wrists and wrestle Hanzo to the ground, mount him and get what his body so desperately needs.

“Cease,” Hanzo growls. He seizes Jesse’s thighs, pushes them until Jesse's knees reach his ears. Nails digging into welts. “Stubborn boy.” Jesse feels their erections brush against one another and _jolts._ “If you want my cock so badly, then obey,” and then Hanzo squeezes himself inside.

The moan that rips out of Jesse seems to go on forever, renews itself on his inhale and continues again with every exhale, punched out in a messy whimper with every slow and steady slap of Hanzo's hips against his ass. Hanzo gives him barely a moment to get used to the stretch; just when Jesse starts to feel like less than a human vice, he’s pounded into the table, its legs creaking almost as loud as his own groans. Fucked like he hasn’t been fucked in years.

And he wishes to God he could watch Hanzo fuck him, but it’s so good not seeing anything at all—better than he imagined. Nothing to do. No one to lead or inspire or disappoint or fail. No one knows what he wants like Hanzo knows what he wants, and the flooding pleasure—spikes of it, constant, unstoppable—tells Jesse that what he wants most is for Hanzo to take everything he needs. This is what he asked for. Hanzo's hand on his throat, using him. Stretched out in every possible way. Spread open and gutted. 

Then Hanzo’s dialogue wanes in aggression and he starts making this noise, and holy shit, it's like he's tasting Jesse and relishing the flavor, like he can't help but be pleased and hum his pleasure, and the flush of lust that rockets up Jesse's chest when that registers—his howl comes out quiet, garbled. A drowning thing.

His orgasm sweeps up so quickly, his body bucks hard enough for Hanzo to have to pin him down. _“Yes_ , Jesse. That's it,” he tugs the gag from Jesse’s mouth, neglects his cock but lightens his grip on Jesse's throat. “Come, Jesse. Come for me, baby.”

Jesse, still blindfolded, throws his chin back and howls; Hanzo gets his other hand around his cock and that’s it, he’s writhing like there’s cables in his spine, grounded only by Hanzo’s unyielding hips and the iron hand on his shoulder. His moans bounce off the concrete walls and if he had an ounce of thought left in his brain, he’d worry about someone hearing, but all he knows is the pulsing of his own body and his cock emptying itself over Hanzo’s firm grip.

Then Hanzo goes, leaning forward to sink his teeth against Jesse’s throat while he pulses inside of him, making such incredible sounds that Jesse can't help but grin, teeth-still clenched through the tremors. Babbling now that he's free to babble, voice croaking, "Fuck, fuck," like a broken mantra. 

For awhile they’re both suspended, chests meeting with every panting breath. Hearts in a race until gradually, achingly, slowing together.

It’s another while before Jesse registers Hanzo untying his wrists, bringing them up to be rubbed by his strong hands. The blindfold comes off and Hanzo’s eyes, so soft and sated and intense with affection, burn Jesse more deeply than the welts on his thighs. He lets out a weak laugh and meets Hanzo's kiss with all the tenderness he has left. He only notices how wet with sweat he is until he stretches out his shoulders and sees the glow on his own forearms.

He sits up with assistance. He lets Hanzo wipe him down with a damp cloth. He takes water and drinks it. He’s guided back into his clothes, soft sweatpants and a softer t-shirt, and asked to sit on the floor with his back against the wall until his bottle is empty. Hanzo sits beside and sips from his own bottle.

When the gym finally looks sharp and real in his eyes, Jesse finds just enough energy to give Hanzo a sleepy smile. He strokes his hand back through the man's temple, tugs his side-burn. Gives Hanzo's cheek what must be a hairy, damp kiss. “Thank you, baby.”

Hanzo smiles and slings an arm around Jesse's waist. In the dim lamplight, even with his nose pressed up against Jesse's jaw, he looks ten years younger. “Happy birthday, Jesse.”


End file.
